


Darling, Let Us Be Quiet

by saunatonttu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, anxiety and bottled up emotions, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8772586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunatonttu/pseuds/saunatonttu
Summary: He was rather emotional. It would surprise those who didn't look below the surface of his angrily knit eyebrows and down-curved mouth.He would rather not be.





	1. Chapter 1

The warning signs had been there, and Arthur had dully noted them – but had he done anything to prevent the meltdown?

Of course not.

So now he had to suffer through the consequences from being too aloof and too wrapped up in doing whatever he wanted instead of taking care of himself.

To be fair on himself, he was a moody man in general and so the extraordinary shifts in his feelings couldn’t have been considered anything out of the norm.

Regardless of all that, it didn’t change that it was way past midnight and well into the second hour of the day and Arthur still couldn’t sleep as he lay on his extravagant king-sized bed. Luxurious it might be but it gave very little peace to him during these times.

Sweaty sheets scrunched up beneath his body from all the tossing around he had been doing in the past hours.

He would rather not be lying down, but he also would rather not pace around the empty flat like a lunatic.

He had done that before and only ended up destroying a set of Victorian era tea cups as well as torn a painting of himself and little Alfred he had painted centuries ago. He had treasured it for quite a while, but it no longer existed after facing one of Arthur’s fits of anxiety.

Arthur heard only his own breathing, too loud and with too much stutter for it to calm him down. An abrasive sound that made his insides twist further and the heavy weight in his chest to go lower.

Perhaps that weight was his heart. Perhaps it had finally resigned for Arthur treating it so poorly over the years.

 _Surprise, you emotional equivalent of a tree stump, I still exist_ , it seemed to be telling him.

Arthur would rather prefer it didn’t.

 

 

 

Emotions, Arthur had learned, were surprisingly burdensome. Perhaps that was why it was best that humans didn’t have long lives like his. They’d go mad from the weight of it all. Arthur certainly felt like _he_ was going mad – and he had experience with most aspects of life.

Arthur could hear London’s night life as a distant background noise – drunk people yelling, the night traffic, and everything ugly in between – but it didn’t do much to help his racing heart.

Arthur licked at his lips. In the liquor cabinet was a whiskey bottle he got from Scotland one Christmas – the one useful present his elder brother had ever given him, really.

He could go and get it. A shot of whiskey would at least let him sleep—

 

 

It took him about ten more minutes of self-pity and ragged breathing before he decided _fuck it all_ and go fetch himself a drink. Never mind the conference in Brussels in… approximately eleven hours, now. The digital clock on his nightstand told Arthur it was _2:45._

Wouldn’t be the first time he went in to a EU conference sleep-deprived, although Arthur was kind of tempted to skip it as the thought of EU nations under one roof made his skin crawl even more with brittle anxiety.

He could use with the time to rest, even at the risk of pissing Germany off even more and having to listen to angry voicemails for three weeks straight. As if Germany didn’t have anything better to do with his time.

Arthur didn’t manage to get through with his short trip to the kitchen without fucking something up. The hapless victim, this time, was one of his glasses. German-made, so it was not a terrible loss. Regardless, the sound of shattering glass at his feet sent a terrible shudder through him and made his arms fall limply.

In the darkness of three am London, Arthur didn’t quite manage to get that shot of liquor his system didn’t even need – alcohol was a depressant, in the first place, but it had never stopped Arthur before from drowning his issues into ethanol.

 

 

It was 3:10 when Arthur managed to waddle back into his bedroom after a lot of mindless staring through the kitchen window. The pressure built inside his chest was a little better, perhaps. It was hard to evaluate.

Instead, Arthur’s hands were shaking now. Maybe they were to blame for the shattered pieces of glass in the kitchen.

Sleep would not come for him, that much was clear.

Arthur glanced at his phone on the nightstand, innocently highlighted by the light streaming through from the cracks of the curtains drawn over the window.

He could call Francis, although it was four am over there. He had done something like that before a couple times, with more or less success. Back in the landline times Francis had peacefully slept through some of those occasions.

The golden-orange light flickered over the phone’s case, the shadows of the traffic in the streets giving life to the stillness.

Arthur inhaled. Twice. Too fast. His lungs didn’t really take much in. His eyes burned.

 

 

The next forty-five minutes he spent staring at his phone. It was his four am, when he let his gaze slip away and when he stopped rocking himself on his knees. Quite mindless, he realized. A waste of time.

He stood up, and nearly fell over his own goddamn feet. _Fucking brilliant, Arthur, you can’t even fucking walk anymore, you bloody tosser_.

The anger was easy to summon, easy to give himself a mental spanking even though it did nothing but increase the intensity of the pressure within himself.

Anger and anxiety both fed each other, and so Arthur let go of pissing himself off and tried to pull himself together by switching on the small lamp on his nightstand and pulling out the novel he had recently been reading from the drawer.

It didn’t help, but Arthur had expected as much.

 

 

At five am he gave in and dressed up before staggering out of his flat. A Eurostar would leave at 5:40, but it would take over two hours to reach Paris. By then Francis could conceivably have left for Brussels.

The chilly English morning felt like nothing even though Arthur had merely pulled a pair of jeans on along with a worn-out tee that was admittedly way too thin to help him to not fuck up his health even more.

It didn’t really matter.

Arthur’s feet led him more than his head did, which was no great feat given how messed up Arthur felt inside his head currently. Too little space for his thoughts to stay coherent amid the pressing emotion that he couldn’t name anything else than anxiety, even though that felt a little redundant at this point.

If there was anyone that could save him from this bone-crackling restlessness, it was Francis, who had been nearby Arthur all this time regardless of either of their wills.

 

 

Arthur would loathe to admit to needing anyone, but there were moments like these that proved it to him.

In his heart, he knew; he wouldn’t get overwhelmed by loneliness if he really didn’t need anyone in his life.

And, God, did he need Francis – perhaps due to the familiarity – when he was failing himself.

Brilliant how life played him like a fiddle, wasn’t it?

 

 

The River Thames didn’t look so healthy this morning, but it was hard to tell through the fog that had been cast over the City as well as the remainder of the nightly darkness. Arthur walked along the riverside, slowly becoming aware of the chill of the morning while his fingers played with his phone, hesitating over Francis’s contact.

The street lamps still offered most of the light on the streets that early morning joggers and late drunks ventured on. Arthur recalled the whiskey bottle and the warmth alcohol could have given him. As if he wasn’t feverish enough.

Inhale, exhale; Arthur’s breathing was a little better, a little steadier now. He could do this.

His fingers slid across the touch screen.

_Calling Francis._

 

 

At 5:24 am he felt some guilt about calling Francis, who definitely wouldn’t be up at his six am for any reason.

Perhaps it was Francis’s morning grumpiness that Arthur needed the most to dissolve the knots within himself. He didn’t know. It could be.

Arthur rang Francis, regardless of reasons. He wouldn’t justify it to himself for now. Or ever. It was an elephant in the room that was his existence.

Arthur continued walking, head hung low as he gnawed at his lower lip. It was taking Francis an awful long to pick up.

Eventually Francis did answer the bloody ring. Arthur exhaled, the anxious fluttering in him settling just a bit.

 _“Arthur, just because you rise with the sun doesn’t mean we all do_ ,” Francis skipped over any _bonjour_ s roughly, voice scratchy and heavy with sleep. Arthur had woken him up, then. Not that Francis would have slept much longer, Arthur’s rationale reminded him. Brussels. The EU meeting.

Arthur swallowed.

“Yeah,” he managed. Bloody brilliant. Arthur’s toes curled inside his shoes as he came to a halt, gaze flickering to the river and the light flickering against the dark horizon. Distantly, he realized he was speaking again, “Although I suppose sun isn’t up yet.”

Inhale. Exhale. _Just fucking talk, Arthur._

Apprehensive, Arthur cast his eyes down again. It was good Francis couldn’t see him.

_“—Arthur?”_

Arthur made a sound of acknowledgment, using his free hand to rub some warmth into his bare arm.

A Mercedes sped by him.

 _“What’s the matter?”_ Francis played off the nonchalant tone quite well, but Arthur heard the concern. Which didn’t do anything but make him feel small and foolish, even though he had needed Francis so badly just before.

That was his problem, perhaps – needing so much but never willing to ask for any of it.

Arthur’s eyes prickled.

“I’m sorry for ringing you so early,” he said, stiffly. Exhale. Inhale. The rhythm was getting lost in the forest of his uneven words. Exhale. “I—I think I wanted to hear your voice, strange as it is. What an odd thing, isn’t it?”

Arthur’s skin burned from the fever that had steadily been rising to the surface again. Shivers came back, too.

Perhaps he would have preferred to be in Francis’s bed right about now, getting invisible idiocies drawn across his skin and silly arguments for breakfast.

Exhale—inhale.

From Francis’s side, Arthur could hear some rustling and shifting as well as quiet cursing in French as Francis presumably stubbed his toe onto something. Perhaps onto the box where he kept the paintings from Feliciano.

 _“Do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you?”_ Francis addressed him again, much more alert than previously. _“You sound really strange right now, you know. And that’s a whole lot of strange.”_

“You’re not going to tease me about what I just said?” Arthur questioned mirthlessly. Breathing was a little easier now, as if his lungs actually took the offered oxygen. “You’re throwing away a good chance.”

 _“Oh, I’m saving it for later. Just tucked it away into my memory,”_ Francis said wryly. “ _Talk to me, though. I am rather invested in your well-being.”_

“Because your economy depends on it.” It came off much weaker than Arthur would have liked, and he could just _hear_ Francis frowning in his Paris flat.

_“Don’t belittle yourself, Arthur.”_

Arthur sighed.

_“One of those kinds of episodes, then?”_

Arthur found a bench to sit on, and so he flopped down unceremoniously before offering any response to Francis. “That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

It was about 5:41 now. The Eurostar to Paris had just left, then.

“It’s not a big issue,” Arthur continued, “just—rather restless. I was half-considering grabbing a broom and flying to your balcony. Which would have been unfortunate since your birds follow traffic rules as much as your people.”

 _“Sounds like a considerable issue to me,”_ Francis retorted mildly. _“Do you want me to pick you up with the next train?”_

“Don’t be an idiot. One of us making it to Belgium in time would be nice,” Arthur said, dishonest as he often was with himself. Even though he had just been thinking about wanting to see Francis. “And my presence is by no means necessary at this point.”

 _“Now who’s being an idiot?”_ Francis sighed the only way a Frenchman knew how – dramatically. _“It’s called being fashionably late, and I will make you fashionable this one time. Count on me on that, Arthur_.”

Arthur could have laughed at that, but instead he smiled thinly. “Fashionable, my arse.”

 _“I’ll be on my way soon. Go dress up, I can hear your teeth clattering all the way to here. Make yourself some tea while you’re at it to get rid of that purely self-caused fever, too.”_ Francis worried for him much more than others could have imagined.

Arthur felt a flicker of warmth in his heart. “Fine. I was craving for some, anyway.”

Not really, but that white lie was the most innocent one he had said to Francis thus far.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there's always that person or being that knows you better than you know yourself.

He liked his tea and biscuits well enough on normal days, but today it was hard to swallow either. The sun might be breaking through by now, but there was no breaking the trance-like mood that had enveloped Arthur.

He had some time to kill – Francis wouldn’t arrive at the station until half past eight or so if he caught the first Eurostar to London. Oh, the perks of them not having to reserve their seats like _people_.

Arthur had some regrets about it. Just a bit. Revealing things such as the weaknesses of his heart was incredibly uncomfortable as a process, and some shame always accompanied it like an unwelcome sibling. 

Francis was coming for him, and—and, well, it would be a lie to say it didn’t please Arthur on some level. Deeply selfish creature that he was.

Arthur swallowed down the rest of the green tea he had prepared for himself. The London just down his window was waking up to a new day, and the sound of traffic had increased to irritable levels. A reminder that people’s lives went on today too. Some had ended, in London and in Liverpool and pretty much anywhere in England and the world.

Continuity and progress.

Neither were things Arthur represented. Immortality was not continuity; it was standing still against the waves of time that brushed past him. Immortality was not being able to move on to whatever world there was behind this one – or to be reborn, you never knew which religion was right in their theory. If any were.

Arthur didn’t eat anything save for a few biscuits.

Trying to get himself into the business meeting clothes required a little more effort than Arthur wanted to put into anything right then.

He would rather not.

He spent close to twenty minutes going through his wardrobe, frowning at the suits and the ties. None appealed, because he felt more like himself in comfortably loose trousers and band shirts – sweater vests were somewhere on that list, too.

Arthur sighed as he picked a suit, the jacket and the trousers, as well as the dress shirt and the waistcoat that might not fit around his belly anymore but Arthur would die trying. Francis might have the trendier aesthetics, but Arthur had his own worn-out brand he would stick to.

The edges were a bit frayed, Arthur noted as he dressed the waistcoat. He had had to sew some of the buttons back on it along the years, but it was still perfectly fine as far as waistcoats went.

Arthur’s thoughts slipped to Francis again. Something for him to anchor himself in when he felt boneless and in pieces.

It was ridiculous and pitiable. As far as nations went, _he_ was literally an island; he should be able to hold himself together on his own without the help of Francis.

But he had come to acknowledge that even if he suffered alone, he didn’t have to _be_ alone. It was acting on that realization that was the hard part. 

Arthur buttoned the waistcoat up, fingers steady and precise even as restlessness wrecked him on the inside.

Outside, someone honked their car.

 

 

The contrast of the cold air against his at times burning skin was a bit uncomfortable as he waited on the platform for the train to arrive. It was early but not early enough for the platform to be empty.

Arthur stood alone, arms crossed over his chest as he couldn’t bring himself to give in and shove his hands into the trouser pockets to combat the cold.

His phone buzzed against the side of his leg, and so he had to dig it from his pocket anyway.

_Be there soon ♥♥!_

There was no selfie attached in the message, thank the heavens. Arthur gave a half-hearted smile that didn’t sit well on his mouth before pocketing the device again.

 

 

The train came to a halt not five minutes later, and it was another moment when Arthur contemplated running. Not that he would have got far considering how his motor skills were at this point.

Arthur shifted on his feet, clutching at his elbows as the doors slid open and people began to pour out like rain from the English sky.

Or like blood, but that was a bit too gruesome as a simile for Arthur to handle at the moment.

Exhaling, Arthur turned his head, trying to find the familiar mop of blond hair amid the crowd or perhaps the French tricolour woolen cap Francis was much too willing to wear during the cold season.

Arthur rubbed at his elbows with chilled fingers, trying his best to crush the anticipation in himself. Perhaps Francis stood him up. (He wouldn’t.)

Arthur saw Francis just a bit too late to be able to brace himself for the impact of the Frenchman hurling himself towards him.

Francis knocked the breath out of him with a warm embrace and the scent of a familiar cologne, but it didn’t last long before Francis pulled back a bit for their eyes to meet.

The dark lake-blue of Francis’s eyes drew him in, not for the first time in history.

And Francis’s lips were in a wide smile—

“Fran—“ Arthur began, but Francis silence him by bringing a few fingers to brush against Arthur’s hot cheek. The fingers felt cold, even though Francis had been inside the train up till now.

Arthur didn’t lean into the touch.

Francis didn’t seem to notice, as he was busy leaning forward to close the little distance between their faces.

Arthur didn’t stop him, didn’t evade the lip contact when it came; he closed his eyes and eased himself into Francis’s pace, into the softness of his lips, as his hands went to grip Francis’s jacket, the fabric getting under his untrimmed nails.

It was almost like the world ceased to spun around them for that moment. Of course it didn’t, of course it wouldn’t just for them, but the irrationality in Arthur dared to hope.

Francis’s hand went down to Arthur’s bare neck, cradling its side tenderly, just as he pulled back from the kiss. A soft sigh, from both of their mouths, before eyelids fluttered upwards.

“This isn’t a movie, Francis,” Arthur said, the intended dryness lost under the beats of his heart and the slight stammer that was atypical of him. The taste of Francis on his lips lingered, but much more than that – Francis’s arm still held onto Arthur like a lifeline of sorts.

Francis could be considerate while being incurably Francis, Arthur mused as he looked into Francis’s twinkling eyes.

“Affection shouldn’t be such a foreign concept to you,” Francis tutted as he opened his palm against Arthur’s back, pressing into Arthur’s suit jacket. The bag hanging from his arm bumped against Arthur’s hip.

A breath of silence, and then: “I’m here, Arthur.”

Arthur returned Francis’s smile, for once—

\--but, for good measure, he snorted out, “Well, _bienvenue_.”

 

 

Arthur didn’t need to talk about the night. Francis had seen those before when staying with Arthur – 1940s, but also later – and presumably had had more than a few of his own. Arthur wouldn’t know; Francis didn’t come to him about them.

It wasn’t surprising – Francis had Antonio and Gilbert, which was pretty much a therapy group.

Arthur wasn’t jealous, although he worried on occasion about Francis, whose flippant side was bloody effective at covering anything he didn’t want to be seen.

Francis painted himself as the _big brother_ , the one to take care of others rather than himself, but some got it mixed up with Francis’s leerier side and insisted that it was a different name for his perverse inclinations.

But Francis, in general, was much more genuine than Arthur – so it didn’t matter if the full story didn’t come to light because Francis showed enough to be real.

Arthur’s bursts of realness were lost between Saturday nights at pub and Sunday mornings.

He was a rather sad joke, wasn’t he?

 

 

Francis had brought him a fucking _croissant._ Of all the things.

“Don’t look so offended,” Francis said and rolled his eyes as he placed it on Arthur’s hands much like one would do with an offering. “I didn’t have time to make anything so I grabbed yesterday’s.”

The cold of morning London chilled Arthur to his core, and Francis had draped an extra jacket around him. _I knew you would be dumb and not wear anything properly warm,_ he had shrugged.

Now, Arthur wrinkled his nose and shifted on the bench as he fiddled with the croissant.

“Save it for yourself,” he said. “You’ll need it more than I do. You haven’t eaten, right?”

“I had another croissant, I’ll be fine.” Francis flicked a finger at Arthur’s cheek. “You, on the other hand…”

“There are croissant-shaped things I’d suck on any time, but an actual croissant is not one of those things,” Arthur retorted after a too long a moment of contemplating what the hell to say to Francis to shut him up about food.

Francis snorted, and half-coughed. “That is without a doubt the worst euphemism I have ever heard from you, Arthur. And that is saying a lot.”

“Can I feed it to ducks if you’re not going to eat it?” Arthur asked as he picked at the croissant with his fingers. He didn’t feel quite alright anymore, despite the usual banter and the eerie normalcy that had settled. Arthur tried to look away, to the other side of the platform, and swallowed. “I should—“

Francis leaned against his shoulder before he could say anything further, eyes boring into Arthur’s half-lidded ones. He didn’t say anything; his face did all the talking.

Arthur’s jaw clenched tight, the words suffocated into his closed mouth.

The smile on Francis’s face was tight-lipped, but so gentle it could break hearts, and Arthur couldn’t stand to look at it. So he didn't. 

 

 

Francis could talk about pretty much anything and make it sound either amusing, the most disgusting thing in existence, or the most romantic thing Arthur had ever heard of. The story-telling was strong in his blood, much stronger than waging war, although France had been good at that too despite his later reputation.

Arthur could almost recall the tales a much younger Francis had told to his much younger self.

More than the words, Arthur could at least recall Francis’s dainty fingers in his hair, tugging gently whenever they weren’t in a heated argument with one another.

 _“So many knots, little England,”_ Francis had said on many occasions, sometimes with glee and sometimes with softness lost on a much younger child. Not that France had been an adult by any means. _“Shall I take care of it for you?”_

Arthur would yell at Francis for that, heart beating loudly in his tiny and still breakable chest, without fully realizing that yeah, there was no trick in that question.

 

 

Well, not before they both turned into pretty fucked up entities.

 

 

Arthur blinked, and there was Francis and his fucking face. Sad how often that happened in life – blink, and then there’s a good-looking but vain Frenchman in front of you with a smile so practiced it makes you ill.

Arthur would like a real one from Francis one day, but today was not that day.

“Welcome back,” Francis said. “You were spacing out just now. You all right?”

Strange how Francis didn’t bother with his fake French accent right now. Sure, it grated on his ears and soul, but—

Arthur inhaled, stiff shoulders moving up with the action. The suit jacket constricted the movement. Fucking shoulder pads. He was rather sick of them. “I’m not quite sure myself.”

“Hm,” Francis hummed, his nose poking at Arthur’s cheek, once again proving he had zero sense of personal space. It was fine this time only because Francis was warm and the body heat was welcome to Arthur’s feverish body.

Perhaps he should have stayed in bed and skipped everything in the world for just the day. A tempting idea. if nothing else. Ringing Francis had been a stupid idea; what could he even say to the other now that the sense of normalcy wasn’t there at all?

“Arthur.” The way Francis said his name drew Arthur’s attention and gaze to him, although reluctantly. The blond curls of hair shone brighter than the grey world around them, brighter than the snowflakes dancing in the air.

Francis looked at him head on. Always had, always would, because as cowardly as he was, he never liked bending to Arthur’s unreason. Never would do what he was supposed to.

A snowflake hit Francis’s nose and melted on it.

Arthur wanted to kiss it, but he didn’t really—didn’t really. He wasn’t sure what he wanted these days. To be alone or to have friends, to fit himself into people’s lives or to continue by himself.

It went beyond the politics his politicians played; it went past the so-called English pride he was so known for.

Arthur swallowed. “What.”

Francis’s eyes peered at him, a stray lock of hair between them just at the beginning of the bridge of Francis’s nose. The blue was clearer, or perhaps Arthur had been blind this whole time to how they shone. Arthur didn’t dare to blink; should that shine go away, he would regret it.

Francis’s forehead pressed against his as he slid closer to Arthur, whose fingers twitched and clutched at the croissant a bit too tight.

They weren’t alone in the station, but they might as well have been – Arthur’s senses were all focused on Francis and his presence.

Francis hand on Arthur’s cheek had him flinch, just a bit. Francis’s hand halted, but didn’t move away as Arthur leaned his feverish cheek against the cooler skin.

Words were almost unneeded – almost.

Francis’s smile softened. How good love looked with his features – it just looked plain terrible on Arthur. The blue eyes shone brighter, perhaps a bit watery as Francis spoke. Ever the worrywart, this guy. “It’s together or not at all, Arthur. Remember that."

Surprisingly, that did make him lighter.

As did Francis moving in for another kiss.

Rest in pieces, croissant – you will be missed by a Frenchman.


	3. Chapter 3

They ditched the meeting like irresponsible little shits they had always been in their hearts despite their appearances. Arthur wore the appearance of decency like the fictional spies wore identities, but Francis knew him better.

Francis had his hair down today, just brushed enough to not leave any tangles in the waves of the pale sunshine river of hair.

His ears were a bit red from the cold as he didn’t have his cap on this time, but he didn’t seem bothered by it as he kept up the chatter, to which Arthur contributed a few meaningless sentence fragments. It was all right, between them – sometimes neither piece of the puzzle had to be quite right to fit.

They wandered around a couple hours, the people and the city changing around them rapidly without their notice.

Francis led him by the hand, their fingers curled around one another. He knew London just as well as Arthur did, if not better – Arthur had stopped looking at the changes a while back and so he didn’t know it as well as in the past.

It was strange, not knowing parts of something that was himself.

The Christmas lights on shop windows got his attention. Reds and greens, all warm and welcoming, with lighter colours between. Ugly Christmas jumpers highlighted pressed up against windows of shops that had little to do with clothes.

Arthur paused in front of one, an actual Christmas trinket store, his gaze lingering on the items exhibited on the wide window sill behind the glass.

Christmas tree decorations: baubles of all kind, tinsel in colours that comfortably contrast a pine tree’s green. The red, white, and blue struck out to him the most.

Francis remained by his side, his fingers loose around Arthur’s as he looked with Arthur.

“Any ideas for this year, _mon cher_?”

Arthur shrugged. A little helpless, a bit indecisive. He didn’t know if his brothers were coming around this Christmas, especially Scotland.

Did it matter, anyway?

They were all sick of him and his bullshit, anyway. Arthur was too.

“Would you prefer to spend it with me this year?” Francis asked.

 A snowflake got lost trailing Arthur’s neck, melting and moving on as a cold drop of water. Arthur shivered, inhaled, and held Francis’s hand tighter by exhalation.

He ought to feel ashamed, but he did not give as much a damn as usual right then.

“Yeah,” Arthur said – and sometimes it was just that simple. “Yeah, I would.”

 

 

They ended up going to a café at Arthur’s request made out of thirst rather than hunger. It was a brief visit, just long enough that Arthur could have a cup of black tea and Francis a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

Arthur watched him, but neither said a word for the time being.

A little bit of Christmas music from radio gave pleasant background noise over the sounds of clinking spoons and mugs. The same songs from one year to another; by now it all should be nothing more than meaningless blabber hidden under a nice composition of instrumentals.

Francis’s face showed his sleep deprivation, but even then he managed to pull it off as _a look_ rather than being ran over by a horse carriage like Arthur’s eyebags and generally unpleasant face suggested.

It was a fact of life, one that Arthur had had plenty of time to adjust or resign himself to.

At this point, he just marveled it. Quietly, of course, as outspoken compliments did not fit Arthur’s mouth and would never come out right and without being backhanded.

Francis had at least had the sensibility to wear a scarf. Arthur hadn’t, but he didn’t have much to lose health-wise.

The French tricolor around Francis’s neck was almost endearing, although a little annoying.

After they both finished with their drinks and Francis with his sandwich, Arthur leaned across the table to straighten the scarf loosely tied around Francis’s neck, his fingers gently fixing it so Francis’s neck was properly covered from the chill of the London air.

Francis gave no commentary on that – amazing – but the look on his face betrayed his feelings more than words ever could.

 

 

_He loves you, you know._

 

 

It was hard to search for proof when it came to love, and God only knew how hard Arthur had done that – with results that had destroyed people and even himself.

Hard evidence was, erm, hard to find, after all. So few were ready to lay down their lives for whom they loved, and few took kindly to continuously being tested on their love.

Arthur had wanted to find that kind of evidence so badly in the past – had taken everything America had done as a sign of betrayal and Arthur’s actions never having mattered to the boy he had cared for.

France, Francis, was his own book entirely in Arthur’s fucked up saga of people he had loved. People he had tried too hard. People he had hurt too much, and who had hurt him in return.

 

 

Snow was coming down harder when Francis took his hand and led them out from the café.

 

 

He had boxes filled with unsent letters in the attic of his old manor. They weren’t all addressed only to Francis, but quite a few were.

Writing had once got his head out of his arse, although not for a long period of time. And then his heart had been too full of everything for filled-up pages to do his emotional outages any real justice or offer any medicine.

And later it was just easier to shut everything out and pretend that nothing mattered, that everything was just as dead as God in Nietzsche’s philosophy.

 

 

Arthur was the one to pull Francis in this time again. No rejection, just acceptance on Francis’s part. A gentle smile that Arthur wouldn’t have noticed all those decades ago, blinded by his own self.

He wasn’t a crier, not really, but now he felt like crying. as his fingers pressed into Francis’s shoulders and his lips mouthing incoherent things against the other’s.

Things that Francis already knew, but things that needed to be said regardless.

Things like _I love you_ and _I was wrong_.

 

It would never be easy, but some things were worth giving up misery for.

**Author's Note:**

> A venting fic for the times when I can't otherwise express myself. There'll be at least two chapters after this one, no matter how repetitive the story is in regards to my other fics about the topic.


End file.
